#Undoubtedly changing of Float Value

[phildon14]

On Crocs, a Threat to Christian Values Across The Nation

       It is by no means a remarkable statement to say that as the unyielding constant force of time marches on, so too does the public sensibilities of fashion. The state of fashion seems to change completely in unison with the public consciousness, shifting and re-shifting in response to the relevancies of the era. Time is one of the few irreducible constants within the universe, and with it, is the ever-changing state of culture, flowing congruently with its passage. All this to say that the stylistic fad maintains a certain reliability, you can trust that as one dies out, another will surely be born in its place, these aesthetic motifs seem to find a way of branding themselves to the time they spent in the public eye. Such to the degree that to adhere to any former style today is seen as a posthumous homage to a time long past. In short, fashion changes with the years. Which is why it seemed that nothing was to be questioned when in the recent years a new fad took the public by storm, The Croc. For those who may have been living under a cRock, a Croc is a rubber shoe, characterized by a set of holes located on the dorsum and toes, as when as a useless strap of rubber over the top. Now this may seem fairly pedestrian, and with the comfort advertised by the Croc, it would be no wonder why many seem to be flocking for a Crocing. But when viewed through a lense of skepticism, peering behind the visage of the Croc reveals a sinister truth, as the Croc very well may have its roots in the practice of witchcraft and devilry.

      To the untrained eye, the connection may seem unjust, to correlate the wearing of a shoe to the practice of sorcery, but in reality, the similarities are clear, we need only look to the tried-and-true methods of witch-finding used in the 17th century to see the truth. For example, it is well known that a witch is said to float in water, in early witch trials, the accused was often placed into a lake, at which point if they floated, they were a witch, and if they sunk, they would be lovingly remembered as not a witch. Applying this logic we can see that in the same way a witch floats in water, so too, does a Croc. Now this is not to say that a Croc is a witch, but that those who do very well may be, using the croc as a sort of familiar, a method of connection to the realm of sorcery and a guide through witchcraft. 

      Acknowledging  the Croc as a familiar can lead us to our next test for ferreting out a witch. In the trials, the creature said to be the witch's familiar, believed to be a malevolent spirit taking the form of an animal, would be placed on the ground, and if the creature naturally made its way to the accused, it would prove that the witch kept the creature as a familiar. Since a Croc is, as far as we know, immobile, we must assume the test can work the other way around, with the witch being naturally drawn to the familiar. If we take the accused's Croc and place it on the ground about ten feet from them, we can see clearly and unquestionably that the sorceress (or sorcerer, we’re progressive here ) will go to the Croc, pick it up, and put it on their foot, a clear sign of witchcraft.  

     To grasp a deeper understanding of the connection between the Croc and the unholy we need look no further than the Croc itself. The design of the Croc is undoubtedly peculiar, a clunky shape adorned with a series of holes. It is here we see another concerning correlation, in that the Croc may be shaped in a way designed to give the foot a cloven quality, letting witches pay homage to their macabre practice through ritual costume. Furthermore, looking at the holes we see our next landmark of sorcery. These holes are often decorated with pin-like plugs in various shapes and designs, looking at the catalog of available ornaments we see motifs of goats, dragons, and basketball, all famously unholy symbols. It would appear these adornments are used for witches to display their evil, giving them yet another tether to the realm of dark magics.       Looking at all this you may be wondering, what can I do? How can I do my part in stopping the spread of the Croc? How can I protect my children as well as the entire community of my municipal public? Well it’s quite simple really, just remember to keep the lord in your heart always, and follow in the footsteps of the noble Matthew Hopkins, if you see a Croc wearer in the street, do your community a favor, take a match or lighter, and do the lord's work. So that you may excise sin from your town, baby steps, one foot at a time.

[ayejayque]

The gold standard and how far it has come

The word “money” has evolved in terms of meaning over the past 200 years. When we say, “money” we refer to “currency”. Before the monetary system came into existences, the world was on something called the “gold standard”. We need to know and understand this journey from the “gold standard” to the monetary system. The blog will tell you about the gold standard and how it led us into the current world of freely-floating currencies. The early days Before the modern world was around, trade was already there. With trade, came the concept of money. This led them to settle on a common commodity that could substitute money. Invariably, everyone chose gold and silver to be money substitutes. There are many reasons for this. In the 17th century, all trade happened when gold changed hands. It was the undisputed global currency in existence. It had recognition and was used worldwide. It can be compared to the present US Dollar which is recognized and used everywhere. Paper money originated in the 18th and 19th century. This was when trade expanded a lot and it was problematic to carry around so much gold. The paper currency was only a receipt for the gold. It was not real money. It was a substitute for money. This system of fixing prices through gold is known as the gold standard. Some economists think that it was undoubtedly the best way to manage an economy. Rates of gold exchange Gold functioned efficiently both locally and internationally. Everything had a price which was relative to the price in gold. If the French franc equaled an ounce of gold and the British pound was equaled 1.2 ounces of gold, then the de-facto exchange rate can simply be computed mathematically. In the gold standard the name of currencies signified the promise of the governments or private parties. This promise is to give out a pre-determined weight of gold. Imbalances finished The gold standard was truly efficient. It didn’t allow for imbalances to grow in the market. If trade between two countries existed and one was importing a lot, then the importing nation would have to pay gold of equal value to the other. When gold decreases in one country, deflation occurs. This causes prices to fall. This made the internal prices lower and suddenly the imports started looking expensive. The exporting nation will have a large gold inflow. Increased gold means inflation. The prices of goods will increase making the exports expensive. The gold standard prohibits an unhealthy trade imbalance between the two countries. The government cannot manipulate the money supply to meet its own motives. Money supply is fixed by the gold in the system. As long as there is golf in the system, the money supply remains unaffected and so does the level of prices! The “Nixon” Shock The gold standard existed till 1970. It had been substituted and transformed many times over. In 1971, US President Richard Nixon locked and bolted the “gold window.” He took the whole world off the gold standard. Currency notes which were earlier redeemable against a fixed weight of gold, could not be redeemed now, and were now to be considered valuable in their own right. This is called the Nixon shock. Such a bold move had not been anticipated by the entire world. It sent shockwaves in the global financial and economic system. Currencies that float freely When the Nixon shock happened, no currency had any backing in gold. No exchange rates could be calculated through arithmetic! The currency value depends on many factors. Governments control a lot of these factors. A market was required to determine exchange rates on a real-time basis. This was based on the information flowing through the markets. Currencies have always been traded in the Forex market. It was poised and set to take up this responsibility. The Forex market gained in importance when the world went off the gold standard. No exchange rates were required in the gold standard. When gold was removed as the common denominator between currencies, all of them became freely floating. There started a need to value them against one another. Read the full article

[guytheporn]

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[rayyanrehan]

[strawwritesfic]

Voldemort x Female!Death Eater!Reader: Eyes

Summary: You would do anything to have those eyes look upon you with desire again.

Rating/Warnings/Tags: T (Reader is an unrepentant fantasy racist; Reader is certifiably insane; Azakaban Prisoner!Reader; fantasy slurs; set during Order of the Phoenix; one-sided!Bellatrix/Voldemort; Malfoy Manor)

Challenge: "115 Words" challenge by BonitaWolfSpirit on Lunaesence Archives.

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Eyes

Azkaban was inarguably the loneliest place on earth. Out in the middle of the ocean, there was no escape once one was locked inside. Cells kept prisoners far away from all the others, save for the endless screams that still erupted from the fresher meat. Dementors prowled the walls to sap the will to live from every damned soul within them. It was a perfect storm of isolation…but none of that was what made Azkaban hell on earth for you.

For just under fourteen years you rotted there. Your greatest mistakes in life paraded again and again through your head. Of them all, of course, you regretted most not being present. It should have been his greatest moment of triumph. Instead, it had twisted into his downfall, and you had not been present. He died so far from your embrace.

Bellatrix spent a lot of time shrieking that he wasn’t dead at first. She was there because she believed. She would one day receive the honor accorded to her faith. She would be valued above all.

You comforted yourself in knowing you did not suffer because of delusions. Azakaban held you because you had no regrets.

You should have listened to her. Now you felt some regret.

Freedom felt strange after so long with no one to speak to—not that there had been much talking done during or after the breakout either. Even the air felt different back on the mainland, and the lights just a little too bright. Hours had passed and still you did not quite understand why things had changed. The dementors had revolted, that much you knew, but why and how you’d arrived at Malfoy Manor afterward, you did not.

Alone you stood outside the ballroom. One of your old guards floated nearby, but appeared to desire your emotions no longer. Or maybe it simply did not desire what you felt just then. Whatever it was, you could not name it. The rest of the Death Eaters locked up with you had long since disappeared inside that same room. Narcissa had not wasted any breath explaining why only you must wait outside. That gave you the first flash of hope you’d experienced in years, and more fear than you’d felt during those years as well.

The doors beside you opened. Your heart launched itself into your throat.

“Enter,” hissed a high-pitched voice.

That you did. The room beyond was dim, lit only by candlelight flickering in snake-shaped brackets down the walls. All along your path stood motionless figures in familiar hoods and masks. You probably could have named them all, but you spared them no further attention. A man sat on a high-backed chair against the opposite wall, and you had eyes for none but him.

You threw yourself onto the floor when you were only a few away. “M-My lord,” you croaked. It had not taken long for you to stop your screaming in Azkaban, and your voice was rusted from lack of use. Hopefully this would not anger him, nor the tattered rags that had passed for your clothing since his disappearance.

“Rise, [Name].”

Despite your trembling, you did as you were commanded. Slowly, you lifted your head until you could fill your eyes with him. Him. Your lord. Back from the dead. He raised one pale hand without a word, and you approached to take it. The long, beautiful fingers were just as you remembered them. Tears dropped onto his flesh as you kissed the back of his hand repeatedly. You wept. He lived, and he had rescued you from an eternity without him.

When he pulled away from you, you could not help the noise of protest that came from your mouth. You wanted nothing more than to cling to him, to explore every inch of his resurrected body. Undoubtedly Bellatrix had already tried. But though what remained of your soul cried out to be close to him, you said nothing more and remained exactly where he had left you.

“I see that you did not believe that my return was possible,” he said.

A sensation like that of brushing past a stunning spell ran all the way up your spine. You knew that you could not lie. He would know. He always knew.

“I was foolish,” you answered.

He did not argue the point. “And when you felt your Mark burn last June?”

“I—I thought it a dream. It’s happened before. The dementors, they get inside your head, they give you what you want only to tear it away from you again. If—If I had known—!”

“You would have come to my side at once?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

“You would have left Azkaban? You? With no wand and no reason to believe it was truly me?”

“Yes. Anything. Anything, my lord, to repent of my lack of belief.”

“Then you will have your chance now.”

“My lord!”

One of the watching Death Eaters broke rank. They pulled their mask away, and you were not surprised to see that it was Bellatrix striding up to you. Azakaban would not have improved her behavior. Her husband, however, remained in his place.

“My lord,” she said again. “Surely you do not mean to forgive this woman!”

Both of you glared at each other. Bellatrix had never liked nor respected you. She was right, though. Forgiveness was the last thing you deserved. Your master regarded her in silence for nearly a minute as he twirled his wand idly in one hand.

“You dare to instruct me on what I may or may not do with my followers?” he asked.

Most of those watching would know better than to argue when he used that tone. Bellatrix did not. “She did not believe! Your loyal followers went to Azkaban because we tried to find you. We alone desired your return. She went quietly when the Ministry came calling. Why should you forgive weakness such as that?”

The weight of her accusations bore down upon you so that keeping your head up became nearly impossible. His beautiful red eyes slid to your face, causing you to hold your breath. There was nothing left now but to throw yourself upon his mercy. At least if there was none, you would die by his hand and not that of the filthy Ministry or Order—or, worse, Bellatrix’s.

“She does not lie,” he told you. It was not a question.

“No, my lord.”

“Why would you allow yourself to be led away like some mudblood to the slaughter?”

You swallowed. “I am not proud of what I’ve done. I only thought that it did not matter if you were gone. Alive or dead, I remained loyal to you. I would not denounce your name, nor the acts I did at your command. To spend the rest of my life in prison would be infinitely better than to spend it among those that celebrated your demise.”

Silence rang in the ballroom. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Bellatrix’s mouth twist into a sneer. And why should she not smile? Your excuses sounded weak to your own ears; you could not imagine what they sounded like to him. Still you stood straight as you waited for that final flash of green, or the pain that you so rightly deserved.

“I trust you will not doubt me again,” was all he said.

You fell to the floor for a second time. “No, my lord. Never, my lord. I only wish to serve you from now on, to make reparations—”

He rose, cutting you off. You sat up to see him looking down at you. Though he did not speak, you knew what he wanted, and climbed to your feet once more.

“You will come with me. We have much to discuss. Lucius,” another cloaked figure stepped out of line, “show us to my quarters. And Bella…”

She said nothing.

“Do not think to question my actions ever again. Next time I will not be so merciful.”

Her stark white, angry expression would not leave your memory. You could hardly avoid smirking at her in your turn. Luckily, there was not much time for your expression to linger, as Lucius left to lead the way and you had to scurry after him to keep pace with your master. You’d been away from him for far too long, and that you would always regret. Now that you were back, you intended to stay right where he wanted you as long as he wanted you there. If ever you returned to Azkaban’s lonely vigil, you would not have to watch the same mistake as before replay every night in your dreams.

[im-a-ramblr]

This is for @basket-of-radiants. It’s a piece i did for the drawing of K/L/M chilling together, though it kinda run away from me. Set up is simple: Kal has been captured and as a result has been spending a lot of time with Leshwi and Moash/Vyre. All three have feelings and are sort of aware of the each others feelings. They aren’t technically together yet, but L/M are 100% on board making it offical between the three of them. Instead Kaladin has (yet another) morality crisis.

“Moash, get off.” Kaladin sighed, “Please.” 

“Can't. I’m guarding you.” The other man sassed, shifting his arms to his head rested more comfortably on them.

“Moash. Now.” When nothing happened, he groaned. “This is the worst security system.”

“Shut up Kaladin.” Leshwi said from behind him. “We’re having a moment.” Her hand squeezed his shoulder, while the other played with Moash’s hair. 

“Yeah.” Moash agreed with Leshwi, “Besides if it’s so bad, why haven’t you escaped yet? Or any of the other times we’ve done this.”

Kaladin tilted his head up, the back of his head brushing Leshwi's shoulder. ‘Why haven’t I?’ he wondered. While it probably won’t be an easy escape, it was likely to be the easiest it was going to get. He had a job back at Urithru, and his friends were undoubtedly worried about him. ‘They probably think I’m dead again.’ He thought. ‘But then why should I rush home? I could take as long as I wanted and just say that’s how long it took to heal, escape, and make it back to them' he shook his head. He was not going down that path. He couldn’t go down that path. Syl, who was invisible to the others frowned from her seat on his shoulder. She rested a hand on his cheek. He needed to talk to her, without the others.

Kaladin shoved himself up, sending Moash tumbling out of his lap. Leshwi’s hand on his shoulder tightened and held him down. The opposing caused the Windrunner to fall backward, over the woman. His feet made contact with flesh as he fell, and he heard Moash curse. Kaladin used one hand to prop himself up and studied their new positions. 

Moash was farthest from him, holding his side, which Kaladin had accidentally kicked while falling. Leshwi had reached out for the brown-haired man. Her torso was facing that way, but her legs were pinned under Kaladin’s own. It was a rather ridiculous position, especially when you compared to how normal they’d all been a moment ago. Kaladin covered his face with his hands and breathed deeply. 

“What was that for!” Moash demanded. 

 “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Kaladin let out a sound somewhere between laughing and crying. “Storms I’m a mess.” 

“Are you okay?” Leshwi asked, to which Moash grunted. That seemed to satisfy her because then she turned and spoke to Kaladin. “Are you…” she paused and changed what her question was. “Why are you upset?” 

That just made Kaladin half-cry half-laugh harder. After a minute he managed to suck in a deep breath and let it out. He repeated the action several times, calming himself. “I’m fine.” He managed. “I just need some alone time, to think. Are you going to make me fight for it?”

“After that little display?” Moash asked pushing himself to his feet. Leshwi offered her hand to him and he pulled her to her feet, nudging Kaladin’s legs off her.

“We will give you some time.” Leshwi agreed. She didn’t bother to explain the rules about being left alone again. She’d stopped that after the fifth time Kaladin had repeated them word for word upon asking for time alone. They left, and Syl materialized in front of him. 

“Kaladin.” She breathed and her Knight merely buried his face in his hands again. 

“I like them Syl. Storm it all, I really really like them. Enough that it makes me hate this stupid war. 

“You always hated the war.” Syl crossed her arms. “They remind you of why you hate it, but they aren’t the reason for it.” She tugged at one of his fingers, and he lowered his hands. “They are weird.” She told him firmly. 

Kaladin snorted, and Syl glared at him. “What?” Kaladin asked. “You can’t just say stuff like that with no explanation Syl.”

“They’re weird because they're good for you and not at the same time.” She started pacing. “They care about you, and you them. That’s good. They seemed to understand you, for the most part. That’s good. They’re the enemy with zero intent to change that. Bad.” She huffed. “Wish you’d fallen for Venli. That would make it easier.” 

“Venli.” Kaladin repeated, stunned. “You think if I liked Venli it would be easier?” a thought occurred to him that sent shivered down his spine. “You’re not going to try and set us up are you?” 

“No. She doesn’t like that kind of thing. Besides, anytime I try to set you up with someone it never happens.” 

“You’ve tried to set me up multiple times?” Kaladin asked

Syl ignored him, thinking. “Okay, I think you should talk to Venli. Not right now but you should definitely talk to her, alone at some point. And talk to the other two. Confess how you feel and talk about what you all want. I might not like them, but you could pick a lot worse.” 

Kaladin stared at her. A small part of him wasn’t surprised. Syl loved the idea of him having a romance filled love life. Most of him, though, was completely shocked and still trying to process her words. When he finally did, he shook his head. “No. I am not confirming anything I feel to them. They were literally just using it to keep me here. You’d have to make me, and you can’t.” 

Syl raised an eyebrow and vanished. 

“Syl?” Kaladin asked. “Hey come on, I’m sorry.” She didn’t reappear. A shout came from down the hall, and Kaladin swore. He sprung to his feet and yanked the door open. The guards at either side spun to him, but he paid them no mind. His eyes were locked on the pair down the hall, and the small blue woman floating in front of them. “Sylphrena!” he hissed through his teeth. The trio turned to him, and his spren turned into a ribbon of light and streaked over to him. The other two followed though Syl reached him first. She started to speak, but Kaladin decided that he didn’t want to hear her explanation.

He slammed the door shut, just as the other two approached him. It did very little to keep them out. 

“Sylphrena said you needed to speak with us,” Leshwi said as he pushed the door open. 

“She lied,” Kaladin said. “Well okay, she thinks I need to speak to you two. But I don’t.”

“She also said you’d say that,” Moash added, and Kaladin crossed his arms. 

The trio stared at each other for a while, before Kaladin groaned and stalked past them. He pushed against the door, making sure it was firmly closed.  Then he spun and paced across the room several times. Leshwi and Vyre shared a look, concerned. This behavior was reminiscent of how he acted when he’d first been captured. “Okay, fine.” Kaladin snapped at nothing, which probably meant Syl was talking to him. He spun to face them. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with both of you, it’s tearing me apart because we’re on opposite sides and no one here is going to be willing to give up their values and they shouldn’t have to because all any of us for a home and that’s not wrong.” He took a deep breath and kept going, “But I really really wish that I could convince everyone that peace is an option because we get along great and I know it’s not a onetime thing because of Rlain and I’m just tired of being the only one to feel like both sides are worth saving and…” Whatever else he was going to say was cut off by a sob. Kaladin pressed his hands to his eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.” 

Syl appeared on his shoulder and gave him as big a hug as she could. She glared at them and jerked her head at the crying man. Slowly Vyre and Leshwi reached over and hugged him. That made him cry harder, and they started to pull away. Kaladin clung to them.

[silverlysilence]

Hidden at Hogwarts

So @fabllama02 recently reblogged a post about how the RotBTD Hogwarts AUs got their Houses all wrong (though it does mention how Hiccup was sorted correctly in Ravenclaw and I was like, WTF?!  Most of the art I see is with Hiccup as Hufflepuff, which is believable, but Ravenclaw is obviously the right choice there, but I’m digressing).

Anyways, it points out how Jack Frost should be in Hufflepuff and that got me thinking...

Jackson Overland was by no means the best student to ever walk the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  He probably would have been sorted into Ravenclaw House if that were the case but neither had he received a Troll or Dreadful on his any of his O.W.L.s.  The worst he got was a Poor in History of Magic but he blamed having a ghost for a professor for that one.  The rest of his O.W.L. were Acceptable or Exceeds Expectations with an Outstanding in Transfiguration that surprised even himself.

Still, despite it being only a few weeks into his sixth year, Jackson was already counting down the days until the end of the term.  Most students would balk at wanting to leave Hogwarts—well, at least when it wasn’t exam time—because it was the best school in all of Europe. However, the majority of the school had something he didn’t. 

Friends.

Oh, don’t get him wrong, Jackson did have friends.  A lot of them if he was being honest but none of them went to Hogwarts.  They either attended regular school or went to one of the other two prestigious European schools of magic.  He was fine with that, in the beginning, since he received acceptance letters from both Durmstrang and Beauxbatons as well and could have followed his friends if he desired to.

But Jackson Overland was stubborn and he wanted to attend the alma mater he read about from his mother’s schoolgirl diary. The young ten-year-old him believed he would make new lifelong friends at Hogwarts and then he’d wouldn’t be sad his other friends weren’t there with him.  The train ride had been a great start, he’d bounced around from compartment to compartment, talking with anyone willing and learning a fair share of Hogwarts outside of what he’d learned from books and secondhand accounts.

Then his Sorting took place.

Ravenclaw was the first to be discarded for the simple reason that he didn’t seek knowledge for the joy of knowing as many of the House so often did and he wasn’t one to believe intelligence was everything.  Knowing didn’t matter when one didn’t have the courage or drive to do something with it.  He was sad, though. Sad that Ravenclaw was immediately taken off the table when air was their element, that stung since he did so love being up in the air, surrounded by the winds.

He wasn’t surprised that Gryffindor was the next House to be rejected.  Jackson could be brave and daring when he needed too, but only when it involved others. Not only that, but fire wasn’t his thing and with it being Gryfindor’s corresponding element, he could live without being a member of the House.

That left two options that the Hat painstakingly struggled with: Hufflepuff and Slytherin.

Hufflepuffs were hard-working, dedicate, patience, and loyalty.  All of which could describe Jackson to the letter, when he felt like it.  He could be dedicated and hard-working if that meant more time for fun.  He had patience—how else could he survive year from year at Hogwarts without being patient?—and was fiercely loyal.  Even better, earth was the element for Hufflepuff.

Before he could get too excited over that fact, the Hat began considering the last option.  

Slytherin House.

Jackson actually knew more about the House than any of the others.  His mother’s diary described many of late nights sitting under one of the silver lamps hanging from the ceiling in the Slytherin’s cold common room. Cold because the common room lies beneath the element of their House, water from the Black Lake, but the warmth of her words spoke of fondness for her House. He might not have the same ambition to become the world’s youngest Potion Mistress as his mother, but his determination and need to toe the line in regards to the rules—he was testing their elasticity—was something they both had in common. Add in his cunningness and resourcefulness nature when pulling off a prank that even impressed the sole portrait—hidden in an antechamber of one of the countless secret passageways Jackson passed his time searching—of a younger Salazar Slytherin and he could very well fit in with people of similiar values.

In the end, the Hat had allowed him to choose and he’d chosen loyalty.  Loyalty to a mother he had vague memories of and a diary full of stories he often dreamed about.

Jackson Overland was draped in the silver and greens of the Slytherin House that night sealing his fate.

The next morning, as he giddily bounced through the halls, cheerfully greeting anyone he passed, he noticed the change.  Where the same students had been happy to help and answer his exuberant questions on the train, they took one look at the colors of his tie and turned up their noses, ignoring him. It soon became apparent by choosing Slytherin, he had effectively alienated the other three-fourths of Hogwarts.  It was disheartening and had him dragging his feet as he tried again and again with other members of the various Houses only to be met with the same result.

At least he had his own House.  The House his mother loved so dearly.  There was just one problem.  A small difference between his mother and him.

Phoebe Black was as Pure-blood as they came and from The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black before she’d been struck off the tapestry.

Jackson Overland was a Half-blood.

Nothing more than a Mudblood in the eyes of his Housemates.  

He quickly learned none of them would approach him outside the confines of the dormitories in fear of another student of a different House or teacher seeing them and tarnishing the reputation of Slytherin, inside was another matter.  His homework would always disappear, ink bottles shattered and quills snapped. None of his school robes were destroyed as that would reflect badly on the House and possibly lose them points, his muggle clothes, on the other hand, were mere rags.  Worse was their constant taunts and name-calling.

It was no wonder Jackson had taken to hiding away in Hogwarts as much as possible.  When he wasn’t in class or sleeping behind heavily warded curtains, he was invisible.  Practically a ghost.  For Merlin’s sake, Profession Binns routinely forgot he was a student and would give him Ghost Letters as reading material.  

Thankfully, The Grey Lady caught him attempting to decipher the ghostly writing to no avail one day and kindly read the translucent notes out loud for him to copy down on a sheet of parchment.  He thanked her by placing a single lily flower in the small niche window seat she so often haunted.  Since then, it had become a tradition, when Jackson received Ghost Letters, the Grey Lady would read them aloud for him, and a lily would be put in place the next day.

A process he was repeating once more, gently tucking the Moonbeam Lily that in no way shape or form came from the Forbidden Forest next to the blue and silver pillow. Making sure flower was visible and would be easily spotted, he quickly retreated to one of the hidden passages Salazar informed him of and waited. He didn’t have to wait too long for the Grey Lady to float down the hallway, passing his hiding spot, where she came to a halt next to the window.  

Amber eyes gleamed in happiness when he saw lips forever in a grim expression tilt upwards. Jackson didn’t know if she knew he always stuck around long enough—sometimes hours—just to see her reaction.  To him, it was the best part, because if it made the usual solemn ghost happy for a small moment and that made him happy.

He was just about to take a step back and head down the path at his back when a polite nasally voice drifted down the hall, rooting the brunet to the spot. He couldn’t see the person but the distinguishable clinking of metal against stone every other step was a dead giveaway.  Amber eyes immediately caught sight as tall auburn-haired wearing the same blue and bronze ties as the bulky blond at his side as they made their way pasted his hiding place, animatedly discussing the Triwizard Tournament announcement.  Undoubtedly on their way to their common room to get quills and ink to submit their names into the Goblet of Fire.

It was only after they were long gone, voices but a distant memory that Jackson let out his breath.

“Why do you not talk to him?”

Jackson didn’t jump, but it was a near thing.  Instead, he leaned up against the wall and allowed himself to slide down, sitting in the darkness with only the silvery-grey light cast from the Grey Lady for light.  Drawing his knees to himself, he rested his arms on top and buried his head as if that would further hide him from the world.

“I’d rather not,” the brunet shrugged languidly.

“I do not understand. You often stare at him, and speak fondly of his deeds, but you never approach him,” the Grey Lady glided over towards the teenager.  “Why is that?”

“Because Hiccup bloody Haddock doesn’t know I existed despite having the biggest crush on him?” Jackson mumbled into his arms.

“Yet I have heard you fondly speak of the first time you saw him on multiple occasions.”

“Again, he didn’t know I was there,” Jackson hummed, the memory of his fourth year unbiddenly rise to the surface.

He had just fled Charms class, slipping into the nearest hidden passageway leading to the kitchens for some lunch away from the Great Hall when he heard the deep nasally voice doing a poor imitation of a Scottish accent.  Normally, he would have kept on walking, the prospect of learning a few new recipes from the eager House Elves more of a lure, but the laughter of children had his curiosity peeked.  

Following the laughter led him to a brick wall, but a tap from his wand on an indented stone had the brick sliding back, giving him a glimpse inside the usually unused classroom currently filled with a group first and second years—ties of all colors sans the stark greens and silver of his own—sitting in a circle as a teenager—lacking the telltale tie and all important crest emblazoned robes—read from a book in one hand while waving his wand about in the other hand as he paced inside the circle.

The floating veils above the auburn hair swirled before one floated down, passing by another heading upwards to rejoin the group.  The teenager began reading again as the veil floated around the circle for all the children to get a good look at and when he was finished describing the properties, he asked the group for the name of the plant.  One of the Hufflepuff offered up a name but the teen’s voice took on the horrible Scottish accent once more as he listed how her answer was wrong in a humorous, fun way as to not embarrass her.  

It was in that moment, watching the unknown teen spend his lunch hour teaching the younger students about the various potion ingredients and their properties their Potions Master should have taught them—the bastard hadn’t, Jackson knew that from his experience dealing with the man in his capacity as both a professor and Head of House Slytherin—in preparation for the upcoming exams that his interest in the teen grew.

From then on, Jackson kept an eye out for the auburn-haired teen and observed.  The next time amber eyes caught a glimpse of him it was with him fumbling with his blue and bronze tie as he hurried into the fifth year’s Defense Against the Dark Arts class a few seconds before the bell rang.  Jackson was a bit surprised that the unknown teen was a year ahead of him, instead of behind as he initially thought, but he wasn’t surprised to find out he was a Ravenclaw.  A week later, the Slytherin learn his name from his hefty blonde Housemate shouting it from across the courtyard as he pulled the notorious Thorston twins from House Hufflepuff after.

Amber eyes had dimmed upon seeing the Ravenclaw walking towards the trio of blondes with a Gryffindor on either side of him.  The small fledgling of hope worming its way into his heart quickly shattered.  There was no way he could become friends with the kind-hearted auburn-haired teen.  Not with two Gryffindors as friends—best of friends from the looks of how they hung off of each other and a little more on the blonde’s part if he had to guess—because while members of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff could be friendly and open with their childhood Slytherins friends and family, Gryffindor and Slytherins did not mix.

At all.

The two Houses always thought the worst of each other, blaming them for everything and since Jackson was lumped together with the other Slytherins, he received more than his fair share of accusations by the House. Another reason he tried so hard to be invisible inside the wall of Hogwarts and stay invisible he would continue to do.  Jackson let the hope die and kept his distance. He could not, keep himself from watching over Hiccup though, and with each new thing he learned about the loyal, intelligent, brave Ravenclaw, the larger his crush grew.

“I could speak to him for you; if you so wish?” the Grey Lady offered.

“Milady, I appreciate you’re offer, but Hiccup Haddock is better off not knowing Jackson Overland.”

[nightmaresindreamland]

HC: Arcane Vacuums & Humans

Nightmare has a lot of feelings about humans, most all of them being positive. Humans, when he’d met them (yes, he’d met them) were a race oriented on co-operation amongst them in order for to achieve greater scientific knowledge.

While the universe was still young, around 3 billion years old, he found refuge on their home; now known as Shiver Star, but always known as one of the most powerful Arcane Vacuums in the galaxy.

Arcane Vacuums are rare planets that sucked magic from their inhabitants, to be stored within the planet’s core. Upon an eventual destruction of the planet, magic would be re-released into the universe to be used once more. Think of it as a stored supernova as an element none can see.

Shiver Star, or as it was known at the time, Earth, was a severe Arcane Vacuum. While some planets allowed for runes to be placed on their surface, or those who hovered using magic to continue using it (with minor conditions, such as headaches), Earth was no such place. Earth had a vacuum so strong that magic users could not use it at all once they were within its gravitational pull. The very gravity itself on the planet sucked magic away from people, and the creatures who evolved on Earth evolved without magic.

Humans were a scientific race of giants who had a lot of planetary conflict, but not a lot of interplanetary interaction. No one wanted to step foot on their planet due to the vacuum damaging a lot of then-existing modes of interstellar transportation at the time. 

Nightmare, at the time, was on the run from Star Warriors for killing their two gods. So hiding on Earth was a decision made, albeit a bit stupidly because he didn’t figure a way off the planet (as gravity would be too strong to him to float off it because of the Vacuum).

He was found by the Japanese government first (as Japan was the closest place to where he landed; the east Pacific ocean) and knowledge of his alien existence was shared with other governments after he’d been secured in a safe location.

Generally, his time with humans was a time Nightmare spent almost always asleep, as the vacuum was incredibly taxing on his body. Due to being a demon, a being made purely of magic, he was a bit more affected than any other average magic user. If he was awake for three hours, he would have to take a three (or more) day long rest afterwards.

It was all very tiring, but ultimately, choosing to hide on Earth was a good decision. Nightmare never saw (nor cared) for the international politics undoubtedly happening around (and about) him while he stayed there. He was surrounded mostly by scientists, though there was an ocassional important political figure he was to meet to shake their hand or whatever, it was mostly scientists and stuff. All he knew was that he was not being attacked, so that was fine by him. Humans were trustworthy, and they wanted him to stay alive, from what he heard. They even wanted to keep him awake for longer.

They didn’t kill him when he slept, didn’t attack him when he was awake, and were enthusiastic talking to him. Nice change of pace for once, y’know? 

Nightmare also felt a deep sense of kinship with humans, because they looked very, very similar to how he did. They were one of the few species in the galaxy he considered to be ‘like him’, because of their tallness and the different aspects of their faces. It was comforting to know that he was amongst another species that looked like him, too. Sure, he was a bit strange in comparison to them, but relative to the whole galaxy full of spheres and soft shapes? Humans were a breath of fresh air.

Earth eventually became Shiver Star after a worm ate the planet’s sun, flinging it into deep space and freezing the entire thing over and killing everyone and everything on it. By then, Nightmare’d already left Earth for fear of being tracked if he stayed too long.

Now, ten billion years later, Nightmare’s memory has completely destroyed his direction interaction with humans, but he still feels they (IN RPVERSE ONLY) are very trustworthy and worth his time. They make an air of safety, nostalgia, and indulgent comfort. Their status as an extinct species makes them incredibly valued from a power standpoint, but it’s more than that to him.

He also indulges his nostalgia for humans by recovering their arts, making a company that uses Shiver Star’s rotation as the time, and resurrecting their long since fossilized animals for his zoos. 

And is it any coincidence that his main assistant looks like one?

One could say Nightmare has a bias, but any human or humanoid who’s willing to look at that could say it’s a very useful bias to have if he’s ever threatening you. Which, well.. He probably wouldn’t ever in the first place. Unless you’re Rosalina. Sorry, lady.

[xtruss]

The Wacky Story of How China's Navy Got Aircraft Carriers

China was proud to launch its first aircraft carrier, the Liaoning, in 2012. This vessel was a refit of an incomplete Soviet Kuznetsov-class cruiser carrier. However, the story of how China got that ship in the first place may as well be a comedy—because the carrier was actually a rogue acquisition for the Chinese military against the wishes of the government in Beijing.

— by Sebastien Roblin | September 16, 2019 | Nationalinterest.Org

Key Point: So if there’s a moral to the story of the Varyag, it’s not to expect too much gratitude for your good deeds . . . and always keep the receipt.

China was proud to launch its first aircraft carrier, the Liaoning, in 2012. This vessel was a refit of an incomplete Soviet Kuznetsov-class cruiser carrier. However, the story of how China got that ship in the first place may as well be a comedy—because the carrier was actually a rogue acquisition for the Chinese military against the wishes of the government in Beijing. And it was undertaken by a basketball player who claimed he wanted to build a floating casino.

The People's Liberation Army Navy first became interested in acquiring an aircraft carrier in 1970, when China was still on bad terms with both the Soviet Union and the United States. However few concrete steps were taken, because the cost and complexity of such an endeavor far exceeded the PLAN’s limited capabilities during the Cold War.

The Soviet Navy did deploy its first carriers in the 1970s: Kiev-class vessels that could launch Yak-38 Forger jump jets of limited effectiveness. By the 1980s, the Soviets began construction of two more promising Kuznetsov-class carriers. These had a “ski jump” ramp, allowing more conventional—and much higher-performing—Su-33 Flanker fighters to take off from it. Like the earlier Kiev class, the Kuznetsov was technically an “aircraft-carrying cruiser” due its powerful armament of twelve P-700 Granit antiship missile systems. This technicality was important, as “aircraft carriers” proper weighing more than fifteen thousand tons (which is to say, virtually all aircraft carriers today) were not legally permitted by the Montreux Convention to transit from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean via the Bosporus Straits.

However, the fall of the Soviet Union left the second vessel in its class, the Varyag, only two-thirds complete in Ukraine, lacking its armament and electrical systems. Construction ceased in 1992, and the cash-strapped Ukrainian government did its best to pawn off the fifty-five thousand tons of inoperable metal rusting in its Mykolaiv shipyard. Russia, India and China all passed.

A two-part series in the South China Morning Post in 2015 revealed the machinations behind how the carrier ended up in Chinese service anyway, two decades later. It turns out the PLA Navy did want the Varyag—the team sent to inspect it recommended purchasing it! But the government in Beijing was worried that acquiring a carrier might increase tensions at a time when it was seeking to further open itself to Western investors.

Instead, in 1996 a group of PLA officers including intelligence chief Gen. Ji Shengde approached Xu Zengping, a former PLA basketball star who had become a successful businessman arranging international events. The cabal’s proposal: to have Xu purchase the carrier as a private citizen, ostensibly to serve as a casino so as to avoid undesirable scrutiny. Then the PLAN could collect it for its own use once the political winds were more favorable.

This cover story is not as ridiculous as it sounds. Remember those Kiev-class carriers mentioned earlier? Two of them are now moored in China, serving as amusement parks. The Minsk was actually purchased by a consortium of video-game arcade owners in Shenzhen for $4.4 million, and has since been moved to Nantong, north of Shanghai. And the original Kiev? Now a floating hotel in Tianjin. However, the more modern Kuznetsov-class Varyag was undoubtedly of much greater practical interest for the PLAN than either of those ships.

Xu was down with the scheme and borrowed the equivalent of $30 million in Hong Kong dollars from a friend to help fund the venture—the first expense of which was to create a $6 million shell company in Macau called Agência Turística e Diversões Chong Lot Limitada, in order to maintain the fiction. (Macau was still in its last years as a Portuguese colony at the time.)

In January 1998, Xu arrived in Ukraine and met with the shipyard owners. After four days of negotiations, in which enormous bribes were offered and fifty bottles of 124-proof baijiu liquor were consumed, he reached an agreement to purchase the carrier for $20 million—well below the cost of a single jet fighter today. He wasn’t able to make the payment until a year later, with a $10 million extra late fee tacked on.

Some international observers smelled something fishy in the arrangement—Xu’s company did not actually have a gambling permit in Macau, nor a listed phone number or address. Ironically, however, a Jane’s analyst interviewed by the Washington Post at the time stated it was “farfetched” that the PLA Navy would try to operate the Varyag due to its decrepit and incomplete condition.

By June 2000, everything was ready to go. The carrier’s four engines were packed in grease seals (they had yet to be installed), several tons of blueprints were sent overland to China by truck, and a Dutch towing company was ready to tug the 306-meter-long vessel all the way back to China. What could go wrong?

Ever been stunned by the towing fee after your car breaks down far from home? Imagine that, but around five hundred times worse. Why five hundred? Because that equals the roughly five hundred days the Liaoning was stuck being towed in circles off Istanbul, after the Turkish government denied it passage to the Mediterranean via the Bosporus Straits.

The Turkish maritime minister argued that should there be a mishap towing the 306-meter-long carrier—which could not maneuver or move on its own power—it might spin around and block the Bosporus straits to all shipping, or run into one of the bridges connecting the two halves of Istanbul. The straits are only seven hundred meters wide at their narrowest point and require at least six major course corrections to navigate. Hundreds of ships had suffered accidents there in the past. Curiously, the Chinese appear to have perceived the Turkish refusal to be in retaliation for China’s opposition to the NATO air campaign in Yugoslavia the previous year.

The Liaoning spent sixteen months racking up $8,500 a day in towing fees. Finally, Beijing had a change of heart on the matter, and stepped in on August 2001, promising major concessions on tourism to persuade the Turks to let the Varyag pass.

Finally on November 1, in an operation involving more than two dozens tug and emergency vessels, the Varyag was towed through the Bosporus without incident, and traversed the Dardanelles the next day. The hard part was over.

Except for the sea storm with sixty-mile-per-hour winds that struck the rudderless vessel off the island of Skyros two days later, causing it to snap its tow lines. It took two more days to recover the runaway carrier. Tragically, a Portuguese sailor fell to his death while helping reconnect it to its tugs.

Once under power, a normal vessel could have taken the shortcut through the Suez Canal and straight on back to China via the Indian Ocean. But the canal would not accept powerless vessels such as the Varyag, so it had to cruise all the way around Africa, Vasco de Gama–style, chugging along at a brisk jog of seven miles per hour.

In March 2002, the carrier finally arrived at the port of Dalian in Liaoning province, which would lend the carrier its name in Chinese service. Three years later, it was put into a dry dock to allow for an extensive refit process, including sandblasting away all the rust and restoring and installing the engines in 2011.

The PLAN intended to operate the vessel as a pure carrier, rather than as a cruiser-carrier hybrid, so the shipbuilders didn’t bother with the enormous antiship missile systems. They instead confined its armament to a trio of short-range HQ-10 air-defense missile launchers and a few close-defense guns. The vessel’s primary weapon, of course, would be its complement of twenty-four J-15 Flying Shark fighters. The Flying Sharks are domestic copies of the Russian Su-33 fighter, a prototype of which was also acquired from Ukraine in 2001. The Liaoning also flies six Z-12F antisubmarine helicopters, four airborne early-warning variants and two Z-9 rescue choppers.

The Liaoning was commissioned on September 25, 2012, and the first J-15 landed on it a month later. A home-built carrier based upon the Liaoning will soon put to sea this year; those blueprints must have proved useful.

The Liaoning is hardly equal to a U.S. supercarrier—in addition to its smaller air wing and lack of a nuclear power plant, its steam turbines are prone to breaking down and the ski-jump deck limits the fuel and weapons load its fighters can carry. However, it afforded China a leap forward in its naval construction program—which now includes five more carriers in the coming decade of increasing planned capability. According to Xu Zengping, a naval officer told him that the Varyag saved China fifteen years of research and development.

So was Xu richly rewarded for his initiative? He was rewarded with bills: $120 million in all in Xu’s estimation, forcing him to sell his decadent home in Hong Kong and spend all of the intervening years paying his lenders back. You see, General Ji was jailed in 2001 for his involvement in a massive smuggling ring in the city of Xiamen—so the cabal of officers that set Xu up for the task was no longer around to see that he was compensated.

Beijing did pay for the $20 million value of the carrier—but argued that it couldn’t cover other costs because he lacked receipts. Apparently, invoices—or fapiao in Mandarin—don’t come standard with bribes paid to Ukrainian businessmen. And, as one quickly learns in China, you always need the official fapiao.

So if there’s a moral to the story of the Varyag, it’s not to expect too much gratitude for your good deeds . . . and always keep the receipt.

— Sébastien Roblin holds a master’s degree in conflict resolution from Georgetown University and served as a university instructor for the Peace Corps in China. He has also worked in education, editing and refugee resettlement in France and the United States. He currently writes on security and military history for War Is Boring. This first appeared several years ago.

[snazzy-suit]

Luigi’s Spectral Services, or Luigi: Liaison of Ghosts (snippet)

The latest footage of Luigi’s Mansion 3 has inspired me to re-visit an AU I’d been casually working on. 

Basically, after the events of LM: Dark Moon, Luigi slowly becomes more and more comfortable around ghosts to the point where he’s rarely bothered by them anymore (the artwork of Luigi hanging out with the ghosts in the end credits was what inspired this AU in the first place). In fact, he starts a business that focuses on building a more positive relationship between spirits and mortals. Luigi will still capture ghosts if they are causing trouble and can’t be reasoned with, but he tries to find more peaceful solutions whenever possible. As he’ll often tell people, he’s more of a mediator than a ghost hunter nowadays. 

But don’t think Luigi’s newfound courage is universal. He’s still afraid of things like monsters, awkward social situations, door to door salesmen, etc. so that much hasn’t changed. Luigi will always be our lovable chicken of a dork.

tldr; Luigi’s braver around ghosts. He’s just trying to help.

Anyhoo, this is a snippet from one of the many drabbles I have floating around on google drive. I hope to start posting this series on Ao3 soon. It’s not going to be a full length story, just a bunch of loosely connected one/two shots that take place in this AU.

==

Ethereal laughter abruptly floods the foyer—the distinct sound undoubtedly belonging to a gaggle of Boos. A nearby grandfather clock booms to life, its chimes growing progressively more warped with each thundering gong. An array of cuckoo clocks takes this as their cue to join in on the dissonance. Picture frames and grand portraits rattle on the walls with the intensity of an earthquake.

Luigi watches as a line of candles spanning the left and right side of the room gradually ignite with violet colored flames. A faint tinkling sound draws the plumber’s attention to a massive, elaborate chandelier hanging high above him in the center of the foyer. As it ignites with its own ghostly light, he takes several large steps back, ensuring that he is clear of the fixture’s fall radius should the spirits decide to indulge in yet another haunting classic. Luigi observes this all play out in quiet exasperation.

Boos—always ones for the dramatic.

“Hey, um, I don’t mean to be rude, but can we wrap this up? It looks like it’s going to rain soon and I didn’t think to bring an umbrella—”

The din suddenly stops. Then, just as abruptly, an old umbrella falls in front of the plumber, causing the latter to jolt in surprise.

“…Really? All this racket, and that’s the thing that startles you?”

Luigi looks up from the unexpected offering to find the king of all Boos himself hovering just out of reach. Behind the spectral monarch looms a row of Boos all clutching noise makers (was one of them carrying a kazoo?) and random house-hold items. Each of the spirits wears expressions with varying levels of disappointment. King Boo, however, just seems unimpressed.

“Um…thanks for the umbrella?” Luigi ventures, not really knowing how to respond.

King Boo merely rolls his eyes and waves a stubby arm to dismiss his loyal subjects. They depart with a groan, letting their things drop to the floor in a noisy clatter.  

“Ever since you grew a spine you’ve been absolutely no fun, you know that?” the monarch grumbles.

“I’m…sorry?”

“Don’t patronize me,” he growls drawing nearer, “Now, to what honor do I owe this little visit, hmm?”

Luigi blinks, forgetting himself for a moment, before snapping back to attention.

“Oh! Right.” He retrieves the envelope and extends it to the looming spirit. “I’m here to deliver this letter from Princess Peach.”

King Boo arcs a brow at the offering and slowly accepts it with a questioning gaze.

“That ditzy damsel had you come all this way to give me mail? Doesn’t she have Toads to handle such a menial task? Why not send one of them?”

“She did,” Luigi gives the Boo a pointed look, “They never came back.”

“Hmm. They sound incompetent. The princess didn’t have to bother you just because one little fungus baby couldn’t do their job. She could have just sent another one.”

“She sent eight.”

“That many? How tragic.”

“Can you please let them go?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Luigi runs a hand down his face; they’d come back to it later.

“Fine. Let’s just focus on the letter for now,” he sighs.

King Boo hums noncommittally. He turns the envelope intangible and removes the carefully folded letter, tossing the former away where it bursts into supernatural flames before raining down into a tiny pile of ash. Luigi stares after the remains with pinched brows.

“…was that really necessary?”

“I don’t have fingers.”

“That’s not…never mind.”

The ghostly monarch unfolds the parchment and carefully reads over its contents. Luigi awkwardly, but patiently, shifts in place while he waits for the Boo to complete their scrutiny. He takes to examining the antique umbrella with dull interest.

“You’re inviting me to play tennis?”

The plumber jumps at the abrupt question, the query sounding impossibly loud in the near silent mansion. In his surprise he accidentally triggers the umbrella’s opening mechanism, startling him further. King Boo’s magenta eyes flash with amusement.

“It’s bad luck to open those indoors, you know,” he cackles.

“So I’ve heard,” Luigi retorts, sounding flustered as he struggles to close the device.

“I should consider adding umbrellas to my haunts,” the monarch muses aloud, “Are you alarmed by other weather protective gear, dear Luigi? Rainboots? Mittens, perhaps? Oooo how about a sled? I know that last one isn’t technically meant to protect you from the elements, but you mortals sure did make a big deal about one in a comedic film I saw several decades ago.”

“That wasn’t a comedy.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Very.”

“Interesting. It would seem mortals and Boos have different ideas of what constitutes as humor, because there’s no way this,” he holds out the letter, shaking it with emphasis, “isn’t a joke.”

“Why would it be a joke?”

“How could it not be?” the king scoffs. “You want me to team up with Bowser in a doubles tennis match against you and your brother. Why in stars name would I want to do that?”

“It’s for a charity fundraiser.”

“You say that like I care.”

“I don’t get it…I thought you’d jump at the chance to beat me and Mario.”

“Under different circumstances, you would be correct,” King Boo agrees, “but not if it means sharing the credit with that walking soup dish.”

“Oh come on, it’s for a good cause!”

“Still don’t care. It sounds positively boring, anyway. Do you honestly expect that people will pay to watch such a snooze fest?”

Luigi gives the spirit a bewildered look.

“It’s the Mario Bros. against two of the Mushroom Kingdom’s biggest villains. How is that boring?”

King Boo’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“…I’m in a fairly good mood, so I’m going to pretend you didn’t just lump me together with that hack,” he hisses, “But to answer your question, it’s because what you’re proposing is played out. Heroes vs. Villains, seriously? Why would anyone want to fork over coins to see something that happens on a near weekly basis? Worse, it would be on a tennis court of all things. Talk about dull!”

Luigi’s shoulders hunch as he heaves a weary breath.

“What would you suggest we do instead?”

King Boo almost seems surprised by the question, like he didn’t expect the plumber to value his input. The spectral monarch falls into a brief, contemplative silence as Luigi patiently waits for a reply.

He begins to regret asking when a devious grin suddenly stretches across the king’s face.

“I’ll participate in your silly little game on one condition,” the Boo purrs, fangs flashing in the lavender light of Luigi’s torch.

“…and what’s that?”

“You and I are on a team.”

[snoozejoon]

Fools | Park Jimin

pairing: park jimin x black female oc (featuring jung hoseok)

genre: angst, cheating!jimin au

word count: 2.9k

ongoing series!

06 - ACCOUNTABILITY 

Mother dearest, let me inherit the Earth.

Teach me how to make him beg. Let me make up for the years he made you wait. Did he bend your reflection? Did he make you forget your own name? Did he convince you he was a God? Did you get on your knees daily? Do his eyes close like doors? Are you a slave to the back of his hand?

Am I talking about your husband or your father?

JIMIN BARELY uttered a word as he drove Rosalie hack home. Not that she was complaining, it was just odd regarding his lack of effort compared to how the ride to the gathering went. She just sighs and looks out her window, trying not to think about the urgent way Jimin suggested they leave, and his obvious discomfort now. His hands were holding the steering wheel so tightly, Rosalie genuinely thought he might break it.

When they finally arrived home, Jimin looked towards Rosalie, knowing he should say something to her to convince her of some normalcy, but the only thing he could think of was what Hoseok said when he cornered him in the bathroom. Did you ever consider how much you've played her for the fool that she isn't? And the thing was, Jimin honestly didn't consider that, it was never a thought that flew across his mind. And he absolutely hates himself for it.

It just wasn't fair to her.

Rosalie opens her door, and cool wind passes through and smears against Jimin's cheek, subtly revealing some type of reality. "Goodnight, Jimin."

She didn't even look at him. Neither did she hold his head endearingly and kiss him goodnight, because he tore up whatever they had by deliberately going to another to do that in place of her. Her eyes, now drowsy from the quiet ride, meet the night, instead of his face. She exits the car, and begins to walk inside.

"Goodnight, Rosie," he says to no one, hearing the door slam closed and driving off into the night, his quarreling thoughts refraining him from checking if she even made it in safely.

He drives, not knowing where he's going until he'll arrive somewhere— anywhere, really, but here. He couldn't go where he really desired, and he really didn't want to go to that hotel, so he's decided to drive until he tires of it. Anything to keep his mind off the conversation he had earlier, anything to hinder his acknowledgement of the way Hoseok vehemently spit out every word. Were they really just 'friends'?

God, I'm horrible. He thought it before he could stop himself, but he had no right to, and he knows it. What she did—unless it involved Haeran—didn't necessarily concern him in the slightest anymore. It was one of the hardest to swallow pills he's ever taken. He had to nip the thought of Rosalie involving herself with Hoseok in the bud anyway, because considering the way she was so heartbroken at his own infidelity, there was no way she would do such a thing herself. Rosalie was a lot of things, but never a hypocrite.

Fluorescent lights illuminate the highways Jimin enters on, fueling his odyssey with the destination unknown. His suit pulls at his chest and he can feel his heart beat and his chest rise and fall with heightened senses. He is thinking everything and nothing simultaneously; his eyes dart and his pupils dilate with every beam of light he passes and his car soars through the night. His arms steer his vehicle as if he's driving off of one too many bottles of beer, but sober nevertheless.

Thinking some fresh air would aid him in relieving some of his mind's ambivalent state, he lowers his windows and hears the cars zoom by. This goes on for some time; with him sitting and driving to who knows where, with his mind raging with an abundance of guilt and pure longing.

Eventually, his journey ends. His car slows, pulling into a parking space near an array of apartment homes, sitting at its lonesome under orange lights in the vacant space. He leans back, groaning, and loosening his tie that was just too tight—all these years and I could still barely tie a tie without her help. His hands find his hair, disheveling it just so it can fall back in place: an esteemed yet unnoticed rebellion against himself. Should I scream? He wonders. Because this would definitely be the place to do it.

He considers doing that, just yelling until his throat was sore, but all he could do was sit in silence, pondering over Hoseok's words despite his past efforts of stopping. If he dared to open his mouth it wouldn't open with yells of anguish, but with weeps of despair — and that he knew. But his thoughts would have no mercy on him either.

I'd say, your first mistake was the cheat of course,

His hand was to his mouth, and his eyes were sewn shut. A tear threatens to break through its captive barrier. He holds it in, but not for reasons he knows why.

Hoseok's voice floats and echoes slightly in his head.

All you're doing now, is suffering the consequences. Reaping what you've sowed...

"Oh God," the tiniest whimper escapes him then, he can feel his insides sort of shatter and fall to the floor with a ferocity too great to be described. S tear finally slips through, falling from his cheek to silently dripping onto the center console.

Hoseok smiled at him then. he fucking smiled—

You live, and you learn, right?

A sound suddenly startles him, interrupting his self inflicted anguish, and he looks up to see the face of the very person who contributed in tearing his family apart.

Her smile is overbearingly saccharine, her face was bare and beautiful and her hand was already poised for his own to succumb to it, be it willingly or not.

Choi Ahn stood confident outside in the very parking lot to her apartment, peering into the window of the one she just refuses to let go.

Her voice is sweet. Too damn sweet. He watches her breath fog against the glass.

"Hello, Jimin."

The fervor in which the vehicle zoomed away gave a silent breeze to graze Rosalie's cheeks as she watched Jimin's car until it disappeared into glaring streetlights and black cement. She wondered why he was so quick to leave, but didn't allow her thoughts to plague her as she began walking back inside and unlocked her door.

Her house was soothingly quiet as she entered, the constant bustling of the gala seemed to overwhelm her as though she was there for an eternity and not just a mere hour. She sighed as she removed her shoes and entered her living room to see Haeran sprawled atop her father's chest as the two of them slept, a rerun of an old American television show playing on her tv.

Ah, she thought, grinning. That's why it was so quiet.

She tiptoes up to her couch, leaning down to whisper into her father's ear. 

"Daddy?"

Ever the light sleeper, her father jerks up almost immediately, blinking drowsily, "Huh? Oh. Rosalie. Hey, baby."

"Hey," she says. "I don't mean to wake you-"

"You're fine baby, I was just dozing off."

"Oh. Okay," Rosalie says to his instant rebuttal. "Did you guys eat? I told you about the leftover lasagna in the fridge, but it's a little early for dinner- it's not even eight yet." If they ate already that'd be great, that meant that Rosalie could just take Haeran up to her bed and let that be that. Fhe was too drained from the night's previous activities to do much else.

Her dad nods. "Yeah, we ate. Haeran got a little sleepy," he chuckles lowly, looking down.

"Oh, good, I'll take her upstairs to bed then." Her father remains still as Rosalie reaches down to pick her daughter up; it took a lot for Haeran to fall asleep so deeply, but Rosalie is grateful for this little miracle.

She began to slightly stir as Rosalie began to move her, but as soon as Haeran is fully enveloped in her mother's arms she relaxes, and Rosalie finds comfort in her soft breaths on her neck. Haeran's arms were instinctively around Rosalie's Neck as Rosalie held her body securely against her chest and takes easy footsteps ascending her stairs.

It was the miniscule moments like these that reminded Rosalie of why she wanted a child so badly. She has always yearned the curious and bright eyes of a baby, there was simply nothing better than to see a baby inhale deeply when they're so happy to see you, or to listen to the steady hum of their heartbeat as they slept. Holding her daughter close to her body was so valued because there was always that proof of life right under her nose. She was right there, holding her and loving her and being everything she's ever wanted. God, if Jimin would give her anything it was a baby. Her baby.

As Rosalie nears the glow of the nightlight that shined bright because of Haeran's open room door, she comes to the conclusion that Haeran's room was an experience all in itself. Her favorite color is blue, so her room was decked out in blue walls, her bedsheets drenched in an overwhelming splash of turquoise and stripes. Her stuffed animals were all named after shades of blue and something Haeran loved at the time, like the indigo hulk - a spotted puppy that she won after watching her first avenger's film- or the navy piggie, the stuffed frog atop her nightstand. Haeran is undoubtedly spoiled by her parents, but that's okay.

As Rosalie entered Haeran's room, she successfully dodges any toys on her floor that she'll scold her daughter for not picking up later, and rests Haeran's sleeping form under her blankets and right next to indigo hulk, right where she belonged. Then she began to skillfully change her daughter into her proper sleepwear without waking her; she wishes she could thank the person who invented buttons.

With a sleeping and properly changed haeran lying in bed, Rosalie takes this time - as she always does - to just admire her child. Her hand soothingly caresses Haeran's forehead as she feels the warmth emit from her daughter's body. She fixes the bonnet atop her head so that it's worn securely because it always seemed to fall off of her head before morning.

She wonders if haeran knew how much she loved her. How much she needed her with her. Sometimes she isn't sure, but when she sees her staring at her with adoration gleaming in her eyes and feels the joy surge through her body, she thinks that Haeran might just have an idea.

Rosalie was still in her dress as she sat on Haeran's bed, so she quietly stands to go change into more comfortable clothes and retreat back downstairs.

Before she leaves, she kisses her daughter's forehead and straightens herself with a sigh.

She looked so much like him.

After settling into more breathable clothing, Rosalie went back downstairs to make her something to eat and eventually get herself into bed. Her father was still where he left him, watching whatever was playing on the tv. He looks up, hearing her footsteps announce her arrival downstairs.

"I'm gonna heat me up some lasagna dad," Rosalie yawns, scratching her arms. "Then I think i'll head back upstairs after a minute."

Her dad nods, leaning back further into the couch. He'd retreat to the guest room shortly after, he didn't feel like driving home and Rosalie assured him that he was always welcomed.

Rosalie places herself on the couch beside her father after nuking her lasagna in the microwave, beginning to eat as a question appeared in her mind.

"How was the gala?" Her father asks.

"Fine," she quips.

"You didn't stay very long."

"It got crowded. You know how anxious I get," She awkwardly laughed.

Her father set his lips in a straight line and nodded.

"Jimin isn't here."

"We aren't on speaking terms." She didn't want to explain any further, and her dad got the hint. She would tell him when she was ready.

And he would wait.

After prolonged moments in silence and the air between them grew less tense, Rosalie finished her dinner and returned to sit beside her father as he waited for her to gather her thoughts. They always understood each other, and this was one of the many moments where Rosalie is insurmountably grateful of that.

"Daddy," she started slowly, "when mom was alive did either of you..do wrong by each other?" She shakes her head at her attempt to sugar coat her words so she quickly rephrases herself.

"Did either of you cheat?"

At this her father just sighed. Even as he did this and as Rosalie braced herself for the worst, she knew her father would never lie to her. He never has, and he never will.

But he can't meet her eyes.

"...You were about two. I got laid off from work, and stupidly decided to go and drink away my feelings, and made a mistake I'll never forgive myself for."

Rosalie couldn't hide her surprise if she tried. Her chest suddenly hurt, and her eyes watered involuntarily, not even at the fact that her father had betrayed her mother, but at the fact that she wouldn't have even thought to ask if it hadn't been for what she was going through herself. There was never even a drop of resentment that lingered in her house growing up. Not even a little bit.

Did this mean her parents were putting on a show just to make it work for her, like she's been doing for Haeran?

Her voice shook as she spoke. "What-what did mom do?"

"She gave me absolute hell," he says, shaking his head. "And I deserved it all."

Rosalie doesn't say anything, so her father just continues.

"She'd always tell me how disappointed she was in me for succumbing so easily although I was under the influence. Because our love should've been stronger. Because I should've fought harder. And she was right! It was me being weak and entitled that brought me to hurt your mother in the way that I did. And although she forgave me for it, I cannot do the same."

He was telling the truth, Rosalie could tell. He wasn't trying to evoke sympathy from her or bait her emotions. He was simply expressing his sin and the consequences he spent for it.

"She forgave you? After how long? And how?"

"It took a while," her father says thoughtfully. "I even asked her how she felt myself. She just told me: 'James, you know why I forgive you? Because my love for you is stronger than my hatred for your mistakes. And you're not about to leave me alone with this baby.'"

"So she eventually just decided to forgive and forget," Rosalie deadpans.

"Oh no," her father corrects. "Not forget. Never forget."

What Rosalie was essentially getting from this was that her mother thought that if her father's love for her was weak enough for him to cheat, she'd tear it down and build it up from a stronger foundation. She wished she was here to ask her.

Her father's infidelity actually gave reasoning to his behavior after her mother's death. Her mom died when Rosalie was thirteen, and her dad almost completely shut down with grief. Almost everything he had planned for the years onward was put on hold, and no one really gave it a second thought when her father wouldn't fulfill certain tasks her promised he would for years. They just assumed that he would've completed them with his wife and couldn't anymore. But it was her father's guilt that would always halt him before he got a chance to start.

Because he never forgave himself.

As Rosalie said her goodnights to her father after their long conversation she lied awake in her bed and peered at the empty space beside her in deep thought.

Is that how Jimin will be, should anything happen to her?

Should she just forgive and remember, forever living with the thought of how he willingly gave himself to someone else, instead of her?

Could she forgive herself for forgiving him?

[danfanciesphil]

New!

too high (can’t come down) by @danfanciesphil

Suspending himself 7,000 feet above the rest of the world seems likely to be a sure-fire way for Dan to escape normality, and isolate himself for the foreseeable future. The Secret of the Alps, a small hotel tucked into the side of the Swiss mountains is too niche for most avid adventurers to have heard of, making it the perfect place for Dan to work as he sorts through his problems. Unfortunately, privacy is a coveted thing, and as Dan soon finds out, the hotel harbours one guest who values it more than most. 

Rating: Explicit Tags: Enemies to lovers, snow, mountains, skiing, hostility, slow burn, secrecy, longing, repression, nobility, classism, cheating, eventual sex

** Hi! Welcome to my new chaptered phanfic, which I shall be updating weekly if possible. I think it’s going to be every Friday, although this may change according to my unpredictable schedule. I hope you enjoy! **

Ao3 Link

Chapter One

The sheer craziness of Dan’s plan doesn’t fully sink in until he’s suspended 7,000 feet up the side of a mountain, inside a violently rocking cable car in the midst of a blizzard so thick that the glass windows are opaque white. Dan’s tour guide, Kaspar, is a true Swiss native; he’s sat on the one wooden bench inside this small capsule, animatedly jabbing at a game on his mobile phone. Kaspar’s utter indifference to the snowstorm is probably the only reason Dan isn’t screaming in fear right now.

“Is it much further?” Dan manages to squeak.

He grips the handlebar running around the interior, knuckles white. His other hand is clasped around the handle of his suitcase, which is desperately trying to escape and skid off across the floor.

“Not far,” Kaspar replies distractedly. He glances up at Dan from his phone; whatever he sees in Dan’s expression - pure terror, probably - is enough to make him put the phone away and pat the space beside him on the bench. His life in Kaspar’s hands, Dan goes to him obediently, swaying with the violent rocking and then falling onto the bench. “Do not fret little Dan,” Kaspar says, thumping him on the back with a wide, cheery smile. “You will not be needing to come back down for many more weeks!”

If this is supposed to calm him, Dan is not convinced that the Swiss are a compassionate bunch. Kaspar is as chipper as his orange, puffy boiler suit might suggest. He also has a purple and yellow bobble hat pulled over a mess of blondish curls and whiskers. Dan has tried to bundle up, having been well aware that the Alps are famously a little on the chilly side, but Kaspar’s outfit is still far superior. Dan imagines Kaspar is toasty warm, whilst Dan’s hands are on the verge of falling off his wrists inside of their gloves.

“Is there another way up?” Dan asks. Or down, more specifically.

“Ya,” Kaspar replies, nodding. “The small airport in town rents out private planes. But they are not cheap, little Dan! Wait for your first paycheque!”

‘Little Dan’ is a baffling nickname considering Dan is six foot, easily, but he chooses not to point this out, assuming Kaspar has his reasons. “Maybe I could hitch a ride with some rich guest or other, next time,” he says, gripping the edge of the bench. 

Kaspar laughs heartily, his whole body shaking with it, so that the cable car shudders alarmingly. “What guests?”

*

After a very unpleasant experience of actually jumping from the cable car doorway - "I cannot stop today, little Dan! I am needed back at the base. You will be fine, just bend your knees as you land, ya?” - Dan dusts the worst of the snow from his trousers and suitcase, then waves to Kaspar, who leans heart-stoppingly far out of the door to call goodbye. Dan watches morosely as the cable car continues on towards its turning point, then judders slowly back down into the blizzard.

Somewhat reluctantly, he turns to find himself in front of what looks like an enormous, luxury log cabin, if it could house fifteen people. There’s a big balcony running across the entire width of the upper story, decked with tables and chairs. The building is made from an umber wood, which stands out vividly against the pure white snow caking its roof and eaves. There’s a sign, partially obscured by the snow, that reads ‘The Secret of the Alps’, which is the only indication that Dan is actually in the right place. No other options available now, Dan trudges through the calf-deep snow to the front door; he does not have the energy right now to admire the picturesque scene this little building makes, nestled into the side of the mountain, nor the spectacular view it faces, which Dan doesn’t let himself turn to admire just yet.

The moment he pushes the heavy door open and steps inside, Dan is engulfed in a pulse of delicious, thick warmth. It’s so glorious that he almost tears up, but thankfully restrains himself, and just rubs his hands together, appreciating. He stands still under the heater for a moment, slowly feeling the cold dripping from him, quite literally it turns out, as he notes the puddle forming at his feet.

“Welcome!” a comfortingly British voice says from nearby. Stood behind a desk ahead of him is a short, buxom woman wearing a fitted charcoal suit jacket and matching skirt. She’s in her mid-thirties, maybe, with dark hair tied up in a tight bun, and a short, severe fringe. Everything about her screams neatness and professionalism, which is a little jarring, in the middle of nowhere as they are. Before Dan can introduce himself, she marches over to him and grabs one of his hands. “Dan Howell, I presume? I’m Mona Kemp, the manager of the hotel. We’ve spoken via email, of course.”

Dan nods, finding it all of a sudden quite difficult to catch his breath, perhaps partly due to the altitude. “Yeah, of course. Great to meet you at last.”

Her hand is ringless and smooth, very pleasant to grip. Having been deprived of human contact for a few days now, Dan finds it a little tricky to make himself let go. Thankfully, she either doesn’t notice, or pretends not to. “You must be absolutely exhausted,” Mona says, taking his suitcase from him. “It’s late, so I thought we’d start with the basics tomorrow morning, let you get a good night’s rest. Does that sound alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” Dan says, glad that he’ll have an opportunity to recover from his harrowing journey before setting to work. “Thank you.”

She’s already wheeling his case along the wooden floor towards a set of floating stairs, leading up to a second storey, which is partly visible as a mezzanine that juts over the front desk. She stops at the base of the stairs, smiling briskly at Dan as she hands the case back to him. Mona digs into her jacket pocket and draws out a key, which she then drops into his hand.

“You’re right at the top, I’m afraid. There’s only three floors, but as I’m sure you’ll find out, heaving bags up three flights of stairs like these,” she kicks at the floating step nearest to her with her pointed boot, “is a bugger.”

“Right,” Dan says, forcing a smile. “Probably best to start practicing then.”

“Love the enthusiasm, Dan,” Mona says, returning the smile. “I’ve asked Louise, our chef, to make you some tomato soup and a grilled cheese. I’ll bring it up to you in about an hour, shall I?”

At the mere mention of something so delicious, Dan’s stomach rumbles, making Mona laugh. Dan laughs too, embarrassed. “That would be fantastic, thank you.”

“Well, Dan,” Mona sticks out her hand for the second time, and Dan takes it greedily. “It’s a pleasure to have you. I hope you’ll enjoy yourself, and that you’ll find your way quickly. We run a small but high-quality establishment. It’s a quiet job, but a pleasant one, particularly if you’re more of an introverted type.”

“I definitely am,” Dan assures her. “I think I might be the perfect fit.”

Mona smiles broadly and removes her hand from Dan’s. “Excellent. Well, let me know if you need anything. I’ll be here at the desk.”

“Thank you, Mona,” Dan says, trying to load the words with the gratitude he feels. He looks upwards, unsure. “Just... up the stairs?”

“Just keep climbing until you can’t get any higher. You won’t miss it,” Mona replies briskly, already back behind the desk. 

Dan nods, pocketing his key, and bends to lift his case. It turns out that Mona was not lying about what a bitch it is to drag a heavy case up three flights of stairs that have huge gaps between them. Dan trips at least ten times, and bruises his shins, but eventually he makes it to the top floor. There are only two rooms up here - seven and eight. Dan’s key says seven, so he pays no attention to the door next to it, and lets himself in.

It’s a bigger room than he’d been expecting, but decorated pretty much exactly how he imagined it would be. Wood-panelled walls, a double bed with a dark blue duvet and a thick grey quilt, an electric heater, a chest of drawers, and a tiny en-suite with just enough room for a toilet, sink and bath. There’s a vase of plastic flowers on the bedside table, along with a lamp, fitted with a navy lampshade to match the bed.

Dan closes the door behind him, shucks off his coat, then pulls off his gloves and his jumper, all of which fall to his feet. He sits down on the bed, takes a deep breath of thin, mountain air, and bursts into tears.

*

The daylight in the mountains is a blinding, fierce sort that Dan has not experienced before. It gleams off the acres of snow draped over the peaks, burrowing into Dan’s room through the thin slices between his curtains, and waking him instantly. He set an alarm before he went to bed, but it’s been rendered redundant now. He lies in the warmth for a few minutes, then forces himself to emerge, trudging into the bathroom. He showers, cleans his teeth, then goes to unzip his suitcase, still packed from the day before. He’d slept in the clothes he arrived in, which was undoubtedly a bad idea, but he couldn’t bring himself to root around for his pyjamas, exhausted and drained as he’d been after a long, tearful evening. 

As he buttons his white shirt - the one his mum bought for him just before he left in what might be one of her five or so selfless acts throughout motherhood - he stares out of his window at the dazzling view of the mountain, utterly hypnotised. The troughs and peaks of the slopes, iced in pearlescent white, are entirely unblemished. 

Actually... almost entirely. 

As Dan’s eyes gradually adjust to the brightness, he begins to notice a small blip in the landscape; a tiny, scarlet fly in the ointment of the picturesque view. He squints, fingers stilling on the shirt buttons as the figure moves steadily towards the horizon, leaving a faint trail of snow prints in its wake.

Startling him away from the window, Dan’s alarm trills, and he goes to switch it off, forgetting the mystery figure. He pulls on a pair of trousers, some thick grey socks, and boots. With a final, cursory glance in the bathroom mirror, Dan gathers himself as best he can, and heads out of the room. He descends the first set of stairs to the floor where all the other guests’ rooms are, then down another flight of stairs into the mezzanine area. Dan had paid little attention as he passed through it last night, but now he sees this area has been made into a cosy seating space, with a big fireplace, several sofas, armchairs, and a few tables and chairs dotted about. There’s a big television in one corner, and he spots some tall wooden shelves crammed with board games and books, and a large basket full of various patterned blankets, above which a sign reads: ‘help yourself!’

To Dan’s right are a set of double doors, nestled in the centre of some enormous floor to ceiling windows. Beyond the glass is a balcony, the one he’d seen from outside, long and wide, and dotted with tables and chairs. Even from here, just staring through the window, Dan can see that the view beyond the balcony is divine. It looks out onto the same expanse of brilliant whiteness that he can see from his own room’s window. Just then, Mona appears at the top of the stairs leading up from the lobby, a big, dark puffy coat zipped around her.  

“Oh! Dan, you’re up, fabulous.” 

She bustles past him, wrenching open a door hidden in the wood-panelled wall, which reveals a small cupboard. From within, she takes out some checkered tablecloths and a big wicker basket, the latter of which she shoves into Dan’s hands, and beckons for him to follow her. The box is very heavy, Dan quickly finds, but he ambles along behind Mona as best he can as she marches towards the balcony doors. The scent of something delicious catches in his nostrils as he goes, and he breathes in deeply, stomach gurgling. Noticing the sound, Mona looks over her shoulder, smiling knowingly.

“I have the same reaction to Louise’s cooking,” she says, then points to what is not, apparently, simply a lifelike painting of an industrial kitchen as Dan had initially thought. What it actually is, he now understands, is a serving hatch - a square cut out of the wall separating the kitchen from the mezzanine area to make it easier for food items to be passed back and forth. Beyond the hatch, in the kitchen, a blonde woman in a white chef’s smock and hat dances back and forth between the various pans sizzling on the stove. “She’s a wonder,” Mona says. “Caters for the hotel entirely on her own. Three meals a day. Guests and staff.”  

“Wow,” Dan says, eyes widening as he steps through the balcony door Mona holds for him. “Is it normal to have just one person do all that?”

“We’re a small business, Dan,” Mona says as if this is enough of an answer, and follows him out. The moment he’s out of the pleasant, close warmth of the hotel’s interior, Dan is plunged into an icy stream of frigid mountain air. Though the day is still, a biting chill nips at his exposed fingers, his neck and face. He nearly drops the basket with the shock of it. “There may not be many of us, but we all play our part, and we manage fine.”

Dan is focusing too hard on not shivering so violently he drops the basket to respond with actual words.

Again, Mona chuckles at him. “We’re out of the wind here thanks to the positions of the peaks, but it still gets damn cold. You might want to think about more layers in future.”

Dan tries not to let his teeth chatter as he asks, “what are we out here for?”

“Setting up for breakfast,” Mona replies, already flinging the checkered tablecloths onto the tables.

“We’re serving breakfast outside?”

“Of course,” Mona says, then turns to flip open the lid of the basket in Dan’s hands, which Dan now understands is full of crockery and cutlery - hence the weight. She pulls out some plastic clips to secure the tablecloths. “One of our best attractions is our ‘breakfast with a view’. We pop the heaters on, of course, and there are blankets if anyone gets too chilly.”

“Oh,” Dan says, glancing at the few tall electric heaters between the tables, and feeling stupid. “Right, I see.”

“Don’t worry,” Mona says with a sympathetic smile. “You’ll get used to things. Start putting the plates out? Two per table.”

Dan smiles back, grateful for her kind, swift demeanour, and focuses on his given task, moving speedily to set each of the six tables. They lay out napkins, plates, mugs and cutlery, and by the time they’re finished, Dan no longer feels as cold. Mona switches on the heaters one by one, complimenting Dan on how diligently he’s getting on with things, and how it took her half the time it normally does to set up out here with his help.

Dan thanks her awkwardly, not really sure why simply doing his job requires praise, and lets his eyes wander to the view once more; idly, Dan remembers that distant crimson figure from this morning.

“Is it safe for people to ski up here?” Dan finds himself asking. “I didn’t read about any ski runs or anything.”

“No, no,” Mona says, her head snapping sharply from side to side as she straightens the cutlery. “Skiing or snowboarding is not a good idea up here. We’re tucked away, so not many people have properly explored the area. It’s all rather treacherous unless you know what you’re doing, so don’t go wandering off on your own. You can stress that to guests if they ask you, as well.”

The crimson mystery-person is on the tip of Dan’s tongue, but it occurs to him that it may well have been a sleepy mirage, brought on by the shock of the sudden change of lifestyle Dan has hurled himself into without warning. He’ll wait for a follow-up sighting before giving any cause for Mona to call up mountain rescue for an imaginary extreme-sports-junkie.

“So, what time do we serve breakfast?” Dan asks instead.

(Chapter Two!)

[phroyd]

Coming home a few months ago from yet another frustrating day of teaching, I had a sudden epiphany that crystallized my swirling emotions: Curiosity is political. The absence, presence, cultivation and extirpation of curiosity are all political tools of almost unimaginable power. They are also social outcomes with ubiquitous political consequences.

It has been clear to the left for a long time that the contours of knowledge are politically drawn. In recent years, an interest in the politics of ignorance has begun to take shape, too; agnotology, as the philosophical study of ignorance is named, builds connections among politics, psychology and public memory to describe a social construction of ignorance that mirrors the social construction of knowledge. We should observe that this basic insight of agnotology is actually longstanding. Upton Sinclair remarked in 1934 that, “It is difficult to get a man to understand something, when his salary depends on his not understanding it,” making a direct case for a standpoint theory of ignorance.

Unfortunately, neither epistemology (the field of philosophy which studies how we know what we know) nor agnotology has engaged in any notable way with the idea of curiosity, which is, after all, the means by which the mind is engaged both to know and to ignore. Curiosity as a concept and a phenomenon appears to be almost entirely ignored by academics, a gaping hole that led to my “epiphany” of the entirely obvious statement that curiosity is political.

Curiosity is something of a catchall term in English; despite its almost universally positive modern connotations, it is not necessarily or automatically an unmitigated good. A refusal of curiosity can be a moral choice, as in a lack of curiosity about how to create a neutron bomb, or a respectful choice, as in maintenance of privacy. Curiosity can also be an indulgence, a mere diversion or distraction, or even a thirst for power. Think of the unslakeable sort of curiosity of 19th-century imperialists and Victorian memento-seekers, seeking knowledge as a form of control, or of the greedy, entrepreneurial curiosity of prospectors of every sort.

But without a desire to know about the world, we will never want to change it, nor know how to begin that project. Further, without a desire to know about other minds, other beings and other ways of being, we will never build community, solidarity or a new world. While support for incuriosity and ignorance can have important moral standing in contexts such as military research or imperialist prospecting, as teachers, activists or a concerned public, we must also advocate for the political and moral value of certain kinds of curiosity — curiosity which, in the words of Michel Foucault, “evokes the care one takes of what exists and what might exist.”

We live in a highly emotional global moment in which populations stew in fear, anger, anxiety, alienation and even shame among the “unsuccessful,” while curiosity is fundamentally built on self-possession, intellectual openness and a potential willingness to accept the unknown. Since we all know with just a moment’s reflection that defensive people, aggressive people or despairing people are only curiousdespite themselves, it is obvious that our moment’s zeitgeist is not conducive to curiosity.

We are in a classic catch-22: To build and maintain alternative politics, communities and social worlds, we need to pursue a deep curiosity about other people, other beings and other ways of living. But in order to make room for curiosity in our society, we need to make fundamental social changes. Meanwhile, curiosity is being actively squelched as a threat by those in power, actively suppressed as a form of self-defense by those under cultural attack, and is everywhere displaced by free-floating cultural anxiety.

The molding of curiosity begins at birth. Although there are precious few characteristics innate in humans, curiosity is one of them. Yet it was quickly obvious to me years ago as a new mother that as children grow up in our society, they progressively lose curiosity, yielding a remarkably incurious adult population. Although family dynamics and parental styles obviously shape and sometimes dampen curiosity, the transformation of youngsters’ wonder from sparkling and delighted into dull and sullen can largely be laid at the feet of school.

The flattening of free-ranging curiosity in schools has been the subject of complaint for centuries. But kindergarten and the lower elementary grades used to be relatively free-form in spirit and design, leaving learning by rote and strong concern for standards to the later years. Sociologists and psychologists used to peg somewhere around fourth grade as the time when kids lost curiosity, when resentment and ennui overtook a joyful love of novelty and exploration.

Even back in the mid-1980s, when nursery schools prioritized play, Barbara Tizard and Martin Hughes’s 1985 study of preschoolers found that the average number of questions the children asked went from 26 per hour while at home to two per hour while in preschool. But now the “schools” for toddlers rehearse them in phonics. Not surprisingly, today’s children, subjected to planned curricula as early as nursery school and crushed by report cards with grades as early as kindergarten, are reported to be losing interest in school as early as first grade.

While standardized testing, overcrowding and underfunding undoubtedly have particularly toxic effects on the pursuit of inquiry in classrooms, the anaesthetizing of curiosity, in Paolo Freire’s phrase, occurs in any conventional educational institution. In her book, The Hungry Mind, Susan Engel devotes an entire chapter, entitled “Curiosity Goes to School,” to concretely describe how even the warmest, best-intentioned teachers who provide abundant hands-on learning situations kill curiosity in the quest to stay “on task” and cover required material.

Is steamrolling curiosity an actual purpose of school, or just a byproduct of other dynamics? Is curiosity a dangerous “casualness in regard to the traditional hierarchies of the important and the essential,” as Foucault described it, to be stamped out by the educational guardians of the status quo who eagerly enforce the hidden curriculum of obedience? Or does the deadening of intellectual quests merely result from schools’ pursuit of other agendas, with curiosity representing a failure to think in the capitalist terms of calculated opportunity costs, or presenting an obstacle to the smooth instruction in vocational skills or the imbuing of patriotism that could be taking place instead of wondering about the unsaleable? We can debate, but there’s no denying the essential school reality of crushed wondering and wonder.

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Phroyd

[seoinphiladelphia-blog]

If You Use an SEO Agency to Your Business?

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[hwandorp]

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖎𝖘𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖍𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖒𝖚𝖓 𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖘 𝖋𝖔𝖗

HWANG MINJUN ( he/him ), a 23 year old SENIOR wizard seeking a degree in DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS and minor in CHARMS. as a member of the BAEKHO house, the institute of hwando welcomes you with open arms and hopes that you will find nothing but safety and a place to call home on this island full of boundless magic.

extracurricular: president of defense against the dark arts club, baekho keeper, dueling club, soccer team

QUESTIONNAIRE

what is your muse’s favorite spell and why?

the spell impedimenta must be his favorite. minjun has spent months perfecting a skill that is often undervalued yet requires a great level of concentration. it provides him with a significant edge in duels when his opponent is least expecting it. moreover, he appreciates the spell’s versatility, since it may not only paralyze targets but also propel them backwards or cause them to float.

what do you think is your best and worst trait?

his confidence in himself has to be his finest quality. while initially distrustful of others, there is always one person in whom he has the greatest faith: himself. he will always get back up and try again, regardless of how many times he falls. he inherited from his father the attributes of resiliency and tenacity, of which he is quite proud while opposing his father's ideals. despite his reluctance to trust, he prefers to see the good in others and want to do things differently than his parents; resulting in his worst attribute: stubbornness. his stubbornness is excessive. he feels that his own way is the correct one and seldom looks left or right. once he has formed an opinion, he rarely changes it because he is narrow-minded and obstinate.

if your muse had to choose only one between having wealth, happiness or power, which would they choose? why?

he grew up inundated with riches and power as a result of his parents’ power, which he originally appreciated but eventually found to be too shallow and lacking in significance. his option would be happiness without any more consideration. minjun feels he has not yet experienced pure happiness and aspires to discover a sliver of it by following his own way.

what’s been the biggest challenge in your life and how did you deal with it?

contradicting his parents' views and customs is undoubtedly his greatest challenge. while he values the traditional aspects of his upbringing and has incorporated them into his own life, he disagrees with their reliance on the dark arts. since decades, they had relied on the family's everlasting authority and believed they could exert control over whomever they wished. minjun found it intriguing as a child, but he soon recognized this is not what he wants to accomplish with his life. he stood up to his parents, partly fearing to be disowned, but mostly he was confident in himself and his determination to follow the route he picked for himself. his parents did not and still do not take his choice seriously. they hope he will soon see the benefits of dark arts and return to what they refer to as the ‘dark path’.

if your muse had to live as an animal for a whole day, what would it be and why?

for one day, he wishes he were a bird. he want to know what it is like to be really free, to view the world from a new aspect and perspective, since he finds it difficult to do so. he wants to know what it's like to finally escape the cage his parents have been trying to put him in.

what would your muse be remembered by if there was only one thing that could define their entire life?

because of his unwavering confidence in himself, he would be remembered for that. minjun will never, under any circumstances, lose confidence in his own being and the decisions he has made regarding his life and how he wants to live it, despite the fact that his parents and other members of his family may disapprove of him. this is because minjun has made the conscious decision to live his life in accordance with his own values and principles.

OTHER DETAILS

wand details: 12¼", acacia, dragon heartstring, very flexible

patronus details: falcon

boggart details: a reflection of himself, but on the side of those who believe in dark arts.

schooling prior to hwando: hwando, hwando academy

housing: geumdal village, HNK102

[hineswallace48-blog]

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